His Eyes
by An Extremely Agitated Hedgehog
Summary: Feli inherited eveything from Rome, and Lovino inherited nothing. Nothing except his eyes.


His Eyes

Lovino had His eyes. He hadn't realized it for the longest time, always jealous of Feli for _being_ Italy, being the one that Grandpa Rome always liked the best. The favorite. Feli could paint, Feli could cook, Feli was just a sweet, little darling, wasn't he? Look at him Yao, he's going to be the future someday. And what did that leave Lovino? The black sheep of the family, the insolent little brat that most people would rather just ignore. He couldn't write, he was too vulgar for that, he couldn't paint because his hands could never keep steady enough, and whenever he tried to cook, it never turned out quite as good as Feli's. All of this had left him with a rude, insufferable attitude that often times scared people away from him.

Good. Let them run. He didn't need them anyway. He'd be just fine on his own. He didn't need Grandpa Rome, or Feli, or any of them. He'd run away and make it all by himself without those jerk bastards. But he never got a chance. Lovino had never gotten the opportunity to make a big fuss and explode and slam the door shut and leave because the end came first.

He had been packing, stuffing everything he owned into a bag to get slung over his shoulder. Though he was being loud, as always, this time he was hoping that someone would hear him. He had been ignored for far too long. But still, he'd finished and no one had heard him, so he made a good showing of stomping around the villa to try and catch Grandpa Rome's eye. When he finally saw him, slumped over a table and watching his hand in fascination, Lovino's eyes stretched wide.

Grandpa Rome was bleeding. It was only a small cut on his hand, but the shock and awe visible on his Grandfather's face at the sight made Lovino's stomach begin somersaulting. The knife that had done the deed clattered on the wood of the table before laying still. Grandpa Rome smiled, sadly, distantly, shaking his head slightly. But although his face looked calm, serene even, his hand, raised in the air, the blood running down his palm, shook.

" _Nonne ille iam tempusne?_ " He muttered to himself. _Is it time already?_ Lovino's bag dropped to the floor as he realized just what all of this meant. Empires didn't bleed. Why was he still bleeding? Why was the red line still trickling down his wrist, falling and sinking into the tablecloth with a plop, plop sound? The only conclusion that he could come to was that Rome was dying. Because even now, he was _still bleeding_.

Grandpa Rome turned at the sound, suddenly hair-trigger alert as he clutched the previously discarded knife in his good hand. But he relaxed as he saw that it was only Lovino. "Ah, _meus filius_ ". He smiled, _My son_ , "What are you doing?"

"I-I..." Lovino stuttered, "I was just—"

"Just leaving?" He asked, his gold eyes twinkling from the setting sun shining through the open window. Sitting back down at the table, he sighed. "I won't stop you", he said, "I've been a terrible _pater_ , especially to you." Why was he acting like nothing was wrong? How could he be so calm? He was about to die, and yet here he was, still sitting calmly and smiling at him. How did he do it?

The tears began streaming down Lovino's cheeks. He hated him, he hated the bastard with every fiber of his being. So why was he sobbing so? It wasn't fair. This wasn't what he'd wanted.

Rome chuckled. The bastard. "What's wrong, _filius_?"

"D-Don't act like I'm an idiot, you bastard!" Lovino shouted, his voice cracking. It has just started to become lower lately, and kept cracking left and right. One more thing against him. "I can see your hand, I know what's going on!"

His face falling, Rome gestured to the seat across the table, and after hesitating for a moment, Lovino took it. "You're right", he said, "You were always the clever one". Lovino froze. He didn't think that Rome had ever complimented him. _Ever_. "I sent Feli away", he sighed, and Lovino's eyebrows knitted once again at the mention of his _juvenior fratum_ , "But you're old enough to handle it, I realize that now".

He paused for a moment, as if he couldn't possibly think of what to say. What _could_ he say? What could Lovino say to the immortal who was dying? "When you see him again, Feli I mean", he paused, almost sheepishly, "Could you tell him I died a good death? Something heroic? Not like", he sighed, "Not like this".

Lovino shook his head, disbelieving. "How can you just _sit_ there and take it?" He cried, standing up from the table. He was never one to keep his thoughts to himself. "You're the _Roman Empire_ , for the Gods' sakes! Keep standing! Keep _living_ , you bastard! Feli needs you, I—" He broke off, realizing what he had been about to say. " _I_ need you", he muttered, quieter this time.

The brief blinking of his eyes the only sign that he was fazed by Lovino's sudden outburst, Rome's face fell into a look of such deep sadness that Lovino couldn't continue. "When you are as old as I am", he began, his deep voice rumbling the room, "When you have seen as much _death_ as I have, then you will understand".

Both of their eyes fell to his hand then, as the tips of Rome's fingers began to disappear. A breeze began to blow through the open villa, and Rome smiled. Soon, his entire hand was gone, and then his arm started to go too. "No!" Lovino shouted over the wind. "You can't leave me, you bastard! Not yet! _Not yet!_ "

But then he was gone, the wind stopped abruptly, and Lovino was alone in the villa.

He didn't understand. He wouldn't understand for a very long time. He'd been through tragedy before. He'd lived through Pompeii for God's sake. But those Romans hadn't been _his_ people. He hadn't been able to _feel_ it. All of the pain, and death. He wouldn't understand until fifteen-hundred years later, when Rome, the city, his beautiful capital, _his_ , not his brother's, no matter what anyone else told you, was being bombed by the American bastards and their British masters. That was when he'd understood how someone could just lie down in the dirt and _give in_.

Over the course of a single day, more than three-thousand of his people had lost their lives, and he felt it, he felt the death of every. Single. Solitary. One. And he watched the bombs fall, and the buildings fall, the buildings that he had watched his Grandfather build all of those years ago, and he watched the people, the ordinary people who had nothing to do with the fucking war, fall. The whole city was covered in red.

Before long, Lovino couldn't stand it anymore, and he fell too. Down into the mud and blood and suffering he fell. Would he die? _Could_ he die? He _wanted_ to die, wanted this pain and hurt to end more than anything in the world. And so he lay there in an abandoned building, its roof long destroyed by decay and then _bombs_ , and listened to the people screaming.

He tried to roll over, to cover his ears, to make the screaming stop, and then, lying next to him, had been a shard of glass, all that was left of a mirror. Shattered, cracked, broken, just like him, and for a moment, he was sure that he'd travelled back in time, that he was in the villa once again and that was Grandpa Rome in the mirror staring back at him with such a dead look in his golden eyes. But then he blinked and realized that the only face in that mirror was _his own_.

Feli might have inherited everything: his skill, his looks, his sunny disposition,

But Lovino had His eyes.


End file.
